Mel, me and West Red Bank



East Brunswick not so far from Greater Media

Melanie Schriner was a colleague of mine when we both worked at Great Media Newspapers, Inc., when the company was based out of East Brunswick Township, New Jersey. We were both reporters there in 1997; I covered the township of East Brunswick exclusively for The Sentinel, and I forget where she covered. But, all of the newspapers shared a large common area. It looked like a real newsroom alright. I liked it very much.

Well, Melanie left, I have no idea where to or why. What impressed me about her, though, during our time being so closely located, was that she was very upbeat and professional. She worked easily with others, and Melanie had a good idea about how to function in a team.

All in all, I really liked working for Great Media, but the executive editor while I was there, Greg Bean, had made it very clear he was not overly impressed with my work and, consequently, he did not foresee there ever being a time when I might be promoted to editor.  I don’t know what the guy had against me: I pulled larger “inch counts” than anyone in any of his newsrooms at that point and I put in as many hours as anyone. Nevertheless, his evaluation of my work was that it wasn’t ‘there’ to the degree he wanted for me to move onto the next level. Well, that was his prerogative.

True to his word, Greg didn’t promote me. So, in April, 1998 I accepted a job as the editor of The Courier, in Middletown, New Jersey. The little newspaper, unbeknownst to me at the time I accepted the job, was only printing somewhere in the vicinity of 2,500 editions every week. But, they were saying it was like 6,000: whatever. The Courier covered general news in 10 towns in Northern Monmouth County, collectively known as the Bayshore. And, it printed every week on Thursday.

By December of 1999 I had fired the associate editor of The Courier because she didn’t want to cover municipal meetings anymore (and these were our mainstay of coverage) and she was insubordinate when I tried to discuss it with her.

Frankly, the 1999 version of The Courier newsroom was depressing. Our longest-serving reporter, Dave, had picked up some horrible writing habits from previous editors and the younger of the reporters was both only half-trained and far too closed to coaching by me. I needed to have a stable, positive influence working there or I was going to go nuts. And, it had to be someone who could actually write and do it well; oh, and a sunny disposition was a prerequisite from whomever the new person would be.  

I was interviewing a lot of people who were just more problems waiting to happen if I hired them, and then I remembered Melanie. She would fit in, I thought. So, I went about finding her from a few clues I remembered from ‘back in the day’ when we were working together.

I find her, I ask her out to dinner with myself and my roommate, Steve Bailey, and we meet at an Appleby’s or something like that. Melanie accepted the job and it was a wonderful fit from the very beginning.

For me, Melanie was straight out of ‘central casting’ for whom I wanted working for me: a University of Notre Dame School of Journalism graduate; with a wonderful disposition, tempered by an innate sense of professionalism; a wonderful writer, who was a pleasure to read; and an insightful person who had a great work ethic. What is there not to love?

Melanie was absolutely killing it where it came to meetings. Her work was superb. And, she was letting me help her get even better by taking suggestions I offered to her. Everything was working out fine. Melanie’s story counts were fine. Her writing was great. Everything was coming up roses with her and The Courier.

Then came ‘that day’ for her. I always, always preached to my reporters to go well beyond any press releases given to them by local governments or groups -- even the police. ‘The press releases are starting points to get you moving in the right direction -- that is all,’ I would say. Well, part of all of the reporters’ jobs was reporting on crime or police matters in their towns. ‘That day’ for Melanie came on a shining, cool Thursday. She received a press release about a tragedy in West Red Bank: A middle-aged woman killed herself by pouring gasoline over her head in a large pantry in her kitchen, and then she lit herself ablaze. It was the most horrible end I had ever reported upon in any newspaper I ever edited or wrote in.



By no means is reporting for everyone

Melanie wanted to cover it. She threw my words back into my face when I told her she could not go. I was then informed by Mel that she didn’t think I was ever going to fire someone  ‘“for doing their job -- so I am going.” It is not that Mel wasn’t a great reporter and a tough girl. She was and is, wherever she is now. But, I thought her first big police story being the most horrible suicide I ever heard of might not be the way to lead things off. Mel is determined, though, and very persuasive. I did get her to agree to let me come along, though: that was something.

We take my car to the address given in the press release by the RBPD and there was a rundown, abandoned-looking two family brick house in the Spanish section of the town. There was yellow police tape loosely hanging from the door. OK, enough of the backseat quarterbacking for me: ‘What are we going to do, Mel?’

“We are going to knock on neighbors’ doors to see what they know and then we are going to the police station and interview the responding officers, as well as any of her known friends or work mates,” Mel said. She was sharp that one.

She and I get out of my car. I have a camera in my hand. She has a notebook at the ready and several pens. We go up the stairs and, as we do, notice we are walking through a tar-like substance that was almost a semi solid. It was like greasy mud, but as black as something can get. Good thing neither of us were wearing good shoes.

We get to the second floor and Mel knocks on the door of the neighbor. No one there. Then, we go a little bit farther and -- as big as life -- the apartment door was open. Mel said she did not intend to enter but did want to observe what she could from the opened door to try and help with her report. I did not object. She was thinking it through; she had a plan.

It was a half kitchen and we could clearly see it from the open door. Also visible was the pantry door, which was wide open. The walls around the pantry were horribly scorched and the pantry itself was simply black. The entire place, hallway included, smelled of gasoline and something else very unpleasant. Mel was taking notes, getting quiet.

“What’s that!?” she said.

Coming from the blackened pantry was the line of black sludge we had to walk through to get to the second floor. I got it real quick, thanks to having to take two semesters of General Biology at Georgian Court College, in Lakewood. The gasoline was the accelerant. The flames consumed the flesh first and then, being unabated, started consuming the poor woman’s fat as well as the limited amount of oxygen in the tight pantry. It cooked her down and melted a whole bunch of stuff that was never supposed to be.

The RBPD and Coroner’s Office probably brought her body downstairs in some kind of stretcher that contained not only her skeletal and fleshy remains but also some greasy, liquid substances that all used to be her. And, as liquids go, they tend to seep through or spill. Mel and I came to the same conclusion at about the same time.

“We’re standing in her!” Mel screamed.

I tried to assuage her with no result.

She kept screaming, “Oh, my God!” as she ran down the stairs hard, briskly, the fluid now jumping up and staining her clothes because of her running and stair stomping. I came down slowly, more because I dreaded seeing Mel like this. She was a friend much more than she was a subordinate.

She was quiet sitting on the hood of my car.

I came over to her quietly. “Are you OK?” I asked.

No answer. A strange look and no answer. Her notebook and pen were on the ground and she made no attempt to pick them up as she got into the passenger’s side of my car.

The story never ran, of course. She never finished it. Mel needed a few weeks off and I gave it to her. At the end of that, she came back in the newsroom with her big, lopsided smile and settled down in a chair next to my cubicle. I was a little surprised.

I asked Mel if she wanted to talk about her upcoming stories. She responded, “There are no upcoming stories. I am not meant to do this. I know, all the college and everything. But, I can’t do this,” she said. “You didn’t ask anything out of me I wouldn’t have had to do somewhere else. And, you didn’t even want me to do that story. I needed to do it, though. I had to know what I had -- and whatever I have can’t deal with this.”

Mel said she wasn’t going to give notice and she was done today. She said she couldn’t pick up a pen and maybe wouldn’t for a long time. I accepted that and gave her a hug. She shot me back one of those awesome smiles again -- and then she was gone. And, I missed her immediately.

I ran into her some years later. She wasn’t married yet and she was welding and working on boats -- a strange vocation for a Notre Dame grad, I thought. But she was happy. She came over to me in some fast food place I was in and gave me a hug and asked me how everything was. We caught up quickly in passing.

I could not help but notice how healthy and happy she looked. Good for her. During our time she told me it took a long time for her to recover from that story in West Red Bank. I just nodded, what is there to say? I told her if she ever needed a glowing letter of reference please let me know.

This was the first time I put together that being a reporter was not for everyone.